


Trial

by DenmarkStreetGutterClub



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, SmutSunday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenmarkStreetGutterClub/pseuds/DenmarkStreetGutterClub
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	Trial

The taxi pulled up outside an opulent stone-fronted three storey building, the early evening sunshine glancing off its bay windows. A door opened, and a young woman emerged. Tall, curvaceous, and amber-haired, she looked aloof and uninterested in the charming patter of the hopeful taxi driver. Sensing that his window of opportunity was closing, the driver made a reckless stab at an offer of dinner through the still-open door. The woman smiled blithely, and pulled a tube from her purse. Applying a fresh coat of coffee-hued lipstick, she looked at the driver with a strange mixture of disdain and pity, and closed the door on his eager advance. The driver accepted his dismissal without rancour, and sped off into the night, leaving the woman on the pavement, looking up at the sandstone building in wonder.

Inside, a restless bachelor was standing at a high table, drinking local ale and frowning at passersby. His dark jaw and unruly hair were attracting attention; he took their stares for insults and glared at anyone who happened to look his way. His beer was becoming warm and flat. He needed something else, something fresh and cool. His day had been long, and difficult; what did other people do when they had had a hard day? They drank, and went to bars, and talked nonsense with strangers. He could at least try those things.

The door swung open, and the young woman entered the bar with a flick of her hair and a sway of her hips. Her silver dress reflected the light from the swinging bulbs behind the bar, and her hips moved beneath it so that the material curved and slid along her skin. The solitary man sat up straighter; he pushed his pint glass to one side, so that she was in his direct line of vision. He needn't have bothered; the woman walked directly to his table. A smile came over his face as he realised who she must be.

"You're Strike, is that right?" she asked, a confident hand flat on the table in front of her, her clutch in the other.

"Who's asking?"

His eyes appraised her; she was everything he had learned he needed. Her eyes, her dress, her slender calves… He ran his eyes from the tips of her stilettos to the silken strands of her golden hair. She didn't flinch, or look away; her gaze pierced him.

"Robin Ellacott," she said. 

"Ah. Don't you work for Patterson?"

"Yes," she replied, and Strike gave a sarcastic laugh. The woman didn't take offense, but contemplated him. No doubt the rampant industry speculation on her boss's detective abilities, or lack thereof, had reached Strike in his tiny enclave in Denmark Street.

"Didn't you work with Morris?" she fired back. Morris was a subcontractor who had made the national news because he had assaulted a client. Robin enjoyed the mortified expression that touched Strike's face.

"Well," said Strike, "maybe I can put you to better use."

"I'm happy where I am," said Robin.

"That's fine. Except that it's a lie. Why else would you be here?"

"Fate?"

"Don't believe it," he shook his head. "You're not a woman who wants her life to be predestined by some higher power."

"And you're an expert on what women want?"

"Not all women," he said, and his eyes burned into hers.

Robin leant away and caught the attention of a barman. She pointed to a golden bottle and held two fingers aloft. A couple minutes later, two short tumblers of gold tequila were deposited on the high table. 

"Well, Mr Strike, you might be right about one thing. I call the shots on my life. And soon, that's going to include work. I'm severing ties with Mitch Patterson soon."

Robin sipped her tequila as Strike's eyebrows shot up despite himself; he didn't know exactly what he had expected, but it wasn't this.

"So maybe," continued Robin, "I could put  _ you _ to better use."

"You want to use me?" 

"I could be persuaded." She ran her finger across her bottom lip, and licked off the drop of tequila that had collected on her finger.

"And what would it take to persuade you?" Strike leaned forward intently, inhaling her musky, bruised-flower scent. He watched her lips part and her chest rise. 

"Maybe you're past your peak," she suggested.

"Maybe. Or maybe I have a lot of experience you could benefit from," he returned, raising the tumbler to his lips and draining it. He signalled for another, shaking his head when the barman offered ice.

"Maybe I need to give you a trial." Robin unclasped her purse, retrieved a gilt-edged business card, and slid it across the table towards Strike. The card contained only four words and a phone number. Strike looked at it for a second, but made no move to pick it up.

"A trial would work for me," he said. His second tequila arrived, and he rolled the glass in his palms, warming the liquor. The first had been cool and refreshing. This one would be fiery and satisfying. "Where can I find you?"

"Tonight I'm headed to the Four Seasons, two blocks that way," she gestured with her head. "After that, you'll want to call me."

"I have no doubt," agreed Strike. "I'll walk you out."

Both tipped their heads back and finished their drinks. Strike slapped three ten-pound notes on the table, set down his tumbler with a small thud, and took Robin's elbow. Steering her around the high tables and towards the doorway, he brushed the skin of her upper arm with his thumb. He found a thrum of heat there, like her blood was energized. When they reached the door, he looked into her eyes, searching. She glared back at him, inviting. Daring.

"I'll see you around, Miss Ellacott," he said courteously.

"Oh, I hope so, Mr Strike," she replied. In a sashay of silver sequins, she was gone.

***

Robin entered the hotel foyer, nodded to the concierge, and headed for the double doors directly opposite. The doors led to the stairs, the elevators, and a series of now-deserted conference rooms. Robin pushed through the doors and turned right.

A match flared in the distance, and the man with unruly hair and a dark suit was leaning against the corridor wall, a cigar to his lips. 

"You can't smoke in here," Robin said.

"Can't? Or shouldn't?" asked Strike.

Robin's answering smile was equal parts satisfied and challenging.

"Because there are plenty of things a man shouldn't do," he said, pushing off from the wall he leaned against and prowling towards her. She backed up against the opposite wall, her eyes inviting him, her breathing rapid.

"What might they be?" Her eyes never left his as he stalked her, and she felt a thrill of anticipation as he approached, caging her in, his hands on the wall either side of her shoulders. 

"I think you know," he said, dipping his head towards hers. He ran his nose along the side of her neck, across her jawline, and up to her ear. She could feel his ragged breathing on her skin.

"I can show you some things a woman shouldn't do," she offered, her eyes blazing, her reddened lips parting. 

Strike inhaled, her perfume and her excited breath combining to make his head spin. He dragged his eyes back to hers.

"Deal," he whispered.

Their mouths mashed together, feverish and furious. Robin's leg hiked up and Strike grabbed it, wrapping it around his waist, feeling the six-inch heel scrape against his buttock. He pushed his pelvis forward; his tumescent cock rubbed against her mound, dragging a moan from her frantic mouth. 

Her silver dress was slit up the side, and Strike gripped the creamy flesh of her thigh, his fingers making grooves in her skin. His other hand grabbed the fabric, shoved it upwards; he managed to expose her lower half to his hungry gaze, and his eyes widened when he saw the stockings and suspender belt.

Strike's deep growl rumbled through Robin's consciousness; she felt lust race through her veins and creamy moisture pool in her knickers. His crisp white shirt taunted her, and she would not be bested. She pushed her hands into the gaps between the buttons, grabbed the fabric, and pulled. A steady sequence of pops ensued as the fastenings gave way. Robin pulled the sides of his shirt away, revealing a muscled chest covered in coarse black hair. Robin's eager fingers probed his pecs, brushing over his nipples, gently tugging at the dark hairs. The growls got louder and more insistent.

Hands fumbled at belts and underwear, until there were no barriers. Strike thrust a hand down into the space between them, ran his fingers over her flesh, and brought them back up soaking wet. He watched Robin's eyes widen as he sucked her juices off his fingers, pleasure and anticipation screaming behind his cool expression. She reached out and grabbed his taut backside, pulling him towards her with a sexy smile.

Strike lined his cock up with her dripping entrance, paused to lock eyes with her, and then launched: he slammed into her, and she screamed his name, throwing her head back against the corridor wall. Her nails raked across his bare chest, leaving track marks in their wake. Her hips canted forwards, seeking more; she wanted him deeper, needed him to hit that spot deep inside her that drove her wild.

Strike grabbed both of her wrists in his hands, pulled them over her head, and pinned them against the wall. Her agonised moan ramped his desire up to fever pitch. He bit down on the side of her neck, desperate to taste her skin, relishing his total dominion over her body. Her face was flushed, her pulse racing; Strike thrust harder into her, driving her butt against the wall, his hipbones meeting hers as he buried himself to the hilt in her hot, wet cunt.

Moans filled the air as they moved together, frenzied, focused solely on chasing release. Strike reached parts of her that Robin couldn't comprehend; she felt the mastery of his skill, the relentless ecstasy of his need for her. He pounded into her, again and again, the head of his cock stroking her g-spot, engendering helpless groans and cries as his lust slaked hers.

Strike felt the tightening that was no less intense for being so familiar; he gasped, drew breath, his hands slipping on her wrists. He pulled back, paused, and drove into her in one last, punishing thrust. Her expression of pure ecstasy, and her cunt clenching around him, pushed him over the edge: he came in a torrent, hot juice seeping into her, dripping out of her as he pulled back.

Her face was screwed up, her head pressing back into the wall. She said nothing, but keened quietly; Strike knew she had been close, and needed more of him. Strike dropped to his knees and, without preamble, thrust his tongue between her silken labia. She bucked her hips as he reached her clitoris, licking and sucking, his lips feather light as he blew softly on the heated flesh, his tongue lapping up her arousal. 

Robin whimpered as Strike pushed two fingers inside her, setting a rhythm as frantic as before. He circled his tongue around her clitoris, licking hard against her, tasting the decadent flavour of her arousal. Her cunt pulsed around his fingers, and suddenly a gravelly cry ripped out of her throat; she was shuddering, shaking with pleasure, ecstatic sounds escaping her lips between needing, gasping breaths. 

***

The bright moonlight shone through the bathroom window. Robin hurried to shut the door to the ensuite, returning to the bedroom with its soft bedside light. Dressed in cotton pyjamas, she felt relaxed, sated and happy. She dropped her wash bag onto a chair and crawled into bed, pulling the blankets up to her shoulders.

"So, I work for Mitch Patterson, huh?" she asked, a sparkle in her tired eyes.

"Yeah, I couldn't think of anyone else," he replied, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Thanks a bunch," she joked.

"Hey, you're leaving him though, and branching out on your own," he replied. "Maybe you'll even pick me to be in your new agency."

"I'll always pick you, Strike," said Robin, reaching up to caress his face. Her wedding ring glinted in the lamplight as she leaned in to press her lips to his.


End file.
